Refuge

by Andrew Brown

Richard flushed with irritation. ‘Keefer, just because you can’t keep your dick in your pants doesn’t mean that we all have to be lumped in your pathetic camp. I’ve had no problem remaining faithful to Amanda and I don’t intend to change that any time soon. So by all means tell me about your latest problem, but don’t pretend that your problems are in fact also mine. Because they’re not.’ Again he felt an uncomfortable flush of piousness.

  David mumbled something inaudible in response, glumly draining his glass and staring into it as if hoping to discover the answer floating like a dead fly in the layer of beer at the bottom.

  Richard did not want to get into a drunken debate about his friend’s emotional and sexual needs, not with David and least of all in the middle of a strip club. But blunted as David’s comments may have been, they still managed to strike at Richard’s increasing despondency. He felt as if he was skipping across his life like a stone across a lake, bounding in short, predictable hops, little splashes here and there as he shot along, never diving beneath the surface to experience the brackish depths. Drunken moments of altered consciousness felt like living, but they were poor substitutes. He longed for the sublime mixture of misery and euphoria, the desperate emotion that new love evoked. He remembered the fierce agony of his love for Amanda, the intensity of the excitement at being together. Animation had been surreptitiously replaced with numb dependency; their relationship had aged, losing its texture like a crisp wine that had become tiresomely bland. If he spent time travelling away from home, he missed Amanda in the way he missed the other familiar comforts of his home. If they fought, he longed for them to make up, but only because friction forced him to assess their life together, exposing the weaknesses.

  Richard was suddenly aware that David had stopped talking. He turned to his companion to observe him gaping at an approaching figure. The woman was tall, with defined arms and toned thighs that plunged into high black boots. Every move she made oozed sexuality and her tight outfit accentuated her curved waist and large breasts. Richard was about to wave her away when David half-rose to his feet.

  ‘Tashkia! You look magnificent.’ He grinned foolishly. ‘Cleopatra herself would hide in shame in your presence.’ The woman’s hair was ink black and long, cut into a severe fringe that ran in a straight line from one ear to the other. Richard wondered whether the reference to Cleopatra was coincidental. Either way, it seemed lost on the dancer; she frowned briefly at the comment before gently pushing David back into his seat. Her hair framed her face, angular and slightly manly, making her seem stern. When she spoke, her voice was deep and she had a strong Eastern European accent.

  ‘Hello, darlink.’ The vowels drawled although the word was clipped, as if it ended in a strong consonant. ‘Who iz your lovely friend here?’ She fixed Richard with a stare, locking her legs into a mock photo-shoot pose and uncurling a long arm in his direction. Quite involuntarily, Richard felt himself struggle out of the comfortable depths of the couch to his feet.

  ‘And he iz polite, too,’ the woman added with a naughty wink.

  ‘Hello, I’m Richard,’ he said, self-consciously extending his hand. She took it and turned it slightly, gazing into the palm. Richard laughed nervously but the woman did not smile.

  ‘Your love line lookz ai leettle sjhort, Rishaad,’ she said after a while, brushing her thumb across the breadth of his palm. ‘You need a vooman ind your life, Rishaad. You are a nize man, I haf nize friends. We see what we can do, yes?’

  Only then did she drop his hand and look up at him, giving him a rather tight, business-like smirk. Their eyes met briefly before she turned back to David.

  ‘Darlink, you must buy me drink, pleaz. I am vworking tonight. But I need a drink. Then you leaf me.’

  David bounded off, reminding Richard of an overgrown lapdog he had seen in one of his children’s movies; he half-expected him to start howling in appreciation.

  To his relief, David’s paramour had turned to the table next to him. She laughed loudly at some bawdy comment from the men and gestured to one of the dancers to come over. David soon returned, triumphantly clutching a fruit cooler, and she sat down next to him, facing Richard. David nudged up to her warmly, letting her hair brush against his face and inhaling loudly.

  ‘So, Richard, this is Tashkia.’ David looked at the woman with frightening commitment. ‘Possum, this is my friend who I told you about.’

  Richard flinched at the endearment, pretending to be distracted by the semi-clad waitress who had delivered two fresh beers to their table.

  ‘Isn’t she wonderful, Richard?’

  Richard could not be sure that David expected an answer; his friend was so engrossed in stroking Tashkia’s face with the back of his hand. His other hand started to wander indiscreetly across the flat board of her stomach, snaking upwards until his fingers were on the line of her tank top. She slapped his hand and waved her finger at him. David laughed – a full, warm laugh of delight that suddenly filled Richard with envy. Their interaction was juvenile, perhaps even crass, and yet at the heart of it there was something playful and affectionate, a real spark of contact that made the gaudy setting and her dubious profession irrelevant. Richard watched, haunted, as she put her finger halfway into her mouth, drew it out, wet with saliva, and pressed it delicately against David’s lips. His eyes were misted with lust, or love, and Richard looked away in anguish.

  This was why his partner had asked him to join him at the club for a drink, he realised: to show off his latest lover and somehow garner Richard’s sanction. He waited for their interlude to finish. Tashkia pushed David’s head back softly, planting a kiss on his pouted lips, before standing up.

  ‘Ve vill find you good girl, yes?’ she said to Richard. ‘And you vill be so happy. Tashkia will find you a nize Russian girl.’ She ran her hands down her sides and grinned lasciviously. ‘Such a nize Russian girl for poor Rishaad.’ Then she turned back to David: ‘But not for you, naughty boy,’ she scolded. David giggled back at her but she didn’t soften her pretence. She nodded at Richard with mock-politeness and minced off into the gloomy depths of the club.

  Richard did not give David a chance to speak. ‘Don’t ask for my approval, David,’ he spat out at his friend. ‘Not expressly, not tacitly. By being here, joining you for a drink, that does not make me complicit in this. In fact, it’s unfair of you to drag me into this at all. A nice Russian girl for Rishaad,’ he mocked. ‘For fuck’s sake, David, I’ve known Charmaine for years. The two of you were at my place on Friday for a braai, the happy married couple. She’s a close friend of Amanda’s. You can’t expect me to be part of this. Just knowing is unfair.’

  David looked forlorn. ‘I know, I know. It isn’t fair, but it’s not fair on me either, you know? Tashkia’s so wonderful. I’ve never felt like this about anyone … she just really does it for me. I can’t make her part of my life, but my life can’t be without her in it. So what can I do?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Richard felt like slapping his friend, enraged by his fatuousness. ‘She has great tits and a box like a woodwork vice. Fucking brilliant! But please, don’t tell me that she’s the love of your life.’

  David tried to protest but Richard held up his hand to stop him. ‘And do not … do not think of telling me that you want to leave Charmaine to be with this Russian hooker.’

  He had been harsher than he intended and regretted his anger as he saw misery envelop his friend. David’s bulk seemed somehow to diminish and he closed his eyes and dropped his head. Richard waited for a while, calming himself: ‘Okay, I’m sorry, that was a little harsh. But let’s call a spade a fucking spade, all right? She works in a strip club because she has an amazing body. And she does have an incredible body – no man would ever be able to withstand her advances.’ David perked up and sat forward again. ‘But at the end of the day, after you’ve had your fun with her, she can never replace what you have. You have to keep things in perspective.’

  ‘I know. I know. But I was never ver
y strong on perspective. You know me – whatever is standing in front of me takes the foreground and everything else is simply … well, less important. And she kinda fills up the foreground.’ David giggled, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘She certainly does that,’ Richard responded coldly, feeling churlish. The evening had soured and he was eager to leave.

  They tried to resurrect the camaraderie between them, but it was unspontaneous and soon petered out. Richard sipped at his beer, grumpy and at odds with the lurid frivolity around him. The strippers had finished their routines, leaving the stage strewn with damp underwear and crumpled ribbons. A man with unhealthy ruddy skin and receding hair was standing on stage with a microphone. He laughed and swooned at his own jokes, but the crowd soon thinned out as men reached for their jackets or made their way to the bar and toilets. The comedian battled on, his voice booming and screeching.

  Richard drained the last of his beer. ‘Cheers, David. You leaving soon?’

  David seemed lost in his own thoughts, and shook his head. ‘I think I’ll stay a little longer.’ He looked up at his friend and smiled wanly. Richard shrugged and got up to leave.

  Outside, red neon light bounced off the tar, dampened by fog. It felt late and Richard looked at his watch. It was only early evening and the traffic was still dense, tyres hissing like snakes on the wet roads. A couple had stopped to kiss next to his car. Their mouths were open as if they were feeding on one another. As he got into his car, Richard wondered if he would ever kiss another human being like that again – the strange and intimate act of tasting a stranger’s mouth. It seemed cruel that he was left to failing memories. He felt like drinking some more, but could not think of anywhere where he could drink alone without looking pathetic. The familiar route home tugged at him and he obediently turned his car onto the highway.

  The next day his morning began gently with a newspaper and hot, bitter espresso at his desk. But he remained troubled and on edge. His thoughts picked at the events of the previous evening, his humourless reaction to David and the uneasy mix of repulsion and intrigue that he felt towards Tashkia. She had been gameplaying, and yet presented herself unashamedly in her role as courtesan. The sense that she had nothing to lose gave her a hazardous allure. The gesture with her wet finger had been both grotesque and erotic. But of everything that had troubled him about the evening, it was the affectionate interplay between the two that was most disquieting. The way David smelt her hair, the touch of her finger pressed to his lips. The captivation was not that sex was on offer, but that simple human touch could be given and received in trust.

  Their playfulness had contrasted starkly with Richard’s reception from Amanda when he got home. ‘Christ, you stink of cigarette smoke and beer,’ she snapped as he leant forward to kiss her, turning her head away. ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Richard mumbled something about a business meeting before retreating to his study. He had sat in his chair, his computer screensaver blankly throwing galaxies of stars out at him, tapping the desktop with his fingers. He knew that he needed to talk to his wife, to try to explain the burning ambivalence he felt, but his own thoughts were disparate and undetermined. It took him over half an hour to formulate an opening sentence in his mind. The rest would follow, he thought. But he found Amanda curled in bed, the light turned low and the duvet pulled up over her ears. He had stood beside her, listening to her regular breathing, trying to hold back tears.

  Now newspaper print swam in front of his eyes, headlines blending and stories running into one another. Richard’s head felt soggy, as if he were hung-over, although he had had only two beers at the club. He asked Nadine for another coffee and a Panado. She grunted knowingly, but he did not have the energy to correct her assumption. The stale smell of cigarette smoke lingered after she left.

  Nophumla brought him his coffee. She pointed at the photograph on the front page of the newspaper. A young woman was sitting on a dirty mattress by the side of the road, cradling her baby, looking dazedly past the camera lens.

  ‘They are chasing them out of the townships. My neighbour had his shop burnt down yesterday.’ She shook her head. ‘Now we have nowhere to buy our bread – I must walk far to the other side of the location.’

  Richard stared at the woman’s blank face in the photograph, wondering what the foreigners had done to provoke such ire. He thought to ask Nophumla but when he looked up she was already halfway out the door. Slowly stirring his coffee, he returned to the newspaper. He tried to focus on a short article about a rumoured boardroom shuffle at Quantal. He was halfway through the piece when he was startled by a sharp rap on his door. Svritsky barged into his office, immediately filling the space with his odour. Though Richard felt unable to hide his annoyance, his client was oblivious.

  ‘So this is what you lawyers are doing in your offices, huh?’ Svritsky said. ‘Stop this reading and do some work, okay?’ Richard took his time to close his newspaper. The Russian leant over his desk and tugged the paper out of his hands, crinkling it along the top. The intrusiveness of the gesture and the closeness of Svritsky’s sweaty hand infuriated Richard, but before he could react his client dropped a thin pile of papers on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Here are those papers on the car.’ Svritsky flopped back into a chair. ‘You can see it is not owned by me. The car … it is owned by the business. I don’t know if that is a help, but there you are.’

  Nadine appeared at the door, saw Svritsky and immediately turned around. ‘Ah, thank you, you good woman, I’ll have a coffee and one of those nice biscuits, yes?’

  Nadine bristled and Svritsky let out a laugh. Then he winked conspiratorially at Richard. ‘I wish you would find better view for your office, Richard … it’s very ugly.’

  Richard could not contain himself. ‘Stefan, you can’t just bloody well push in here and start abusing my staff and passing comments about my work. For shit’s sake, this is a professional office and I’ve got partners and other clients to worry about. You’re not the only client this firm has to look after. Just remember that.’

  Svritsky’s neck reddened and the colour of his eyes darkened. He stared back at Richard, as if sizing him up, before spitting back: ‘And you are not the only useless fucking lawyer in town, just remember that, my friend. You’re happy to keep taking my money, yes? So don’t come with this rubbish. You do what I pay you to do. Don’t fucking pretend it is something else.’

  Richard stood up, worried that one of his partners would overhear the diatribe, but before he could move to the door Nophumla bustled in. She placed the espresso, a glass of cold water and two Panado pills on Richard’s desk and handed Svritsky a filter coffee. She held the tray while he piled sugar and milk into his cup.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ Svritsky said. The colour had receded on his neck and he smirked as he stirred his coffee. To Richard’s relief, Nophumla closed the door behind her as she left.

  ‘You … you are much too tense, Richard. Really, you must stop this worrying about your partners and what they are thinking. I think you need to live a little.’ The spoon rattled in the saucer as he sat back, looking relaxed again.

  ‘Sorry, Stefan,’ Richard replied. His anger tired him and he knew he could not sustain it. He sat down and sipped at his espresso. The acrid coffee burnt his throat and he gulped at the cold water. His client watched him closely.

  ‘You’re right,’ Richard said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I am tense. Maybe I do need to live a little. But I don’t think in the way you have in mind, Stefan.’

  Svritsky laughed. ‘There are different ways of living. All choices are out there waiting for us. But you must not choose only that what you already know. That is the trick, Richard. The best things are those that are new. But doing the same thing over and over is not living. That is like … how you say? … that is like treading water. You are not going to go anywhere like that; you are not going to see anything new. For that, you need to swim a little, okay?’

 
; ‘It’s the sharks I’m worried about.’

  ‘Just because you’re floating still in the water, that doesn’t mean the sharks don’t already know that you are there, my friend.’ Svritsky said the words as if he were amused by some personal joke. ‘You don’t know what sharks are, Richard. I have swum with some sharks, yes? Big ones with rows of teeth that can rip you to little pieces in one second.’

  Richard was not sure if his client was continuing with a metaphor or not. ‘Israelis, Triads, Albanians,’ Svritsky clarified. ‘These are not people you want to meet. In the water or out.’

  The two men were quiet for a moment, each contemplating their different histories. Svritsky finished his coffee and slid the saucer and cup onto the desk.

  ‘I understand your fear, Richard. But not everything out there wants to hurt you, you know. Some things are for pleasure. You know, like good massage. In my country, Russian women know how to give massage – strong hands, but not like they want to rip the muscles off your bone. Here, in this country of yours, they do not know. No idea. I tell you, either they want to fiddle like little crabs on your skin, little plucking fingers like dirty feathers. Or they attack you like they want to fucking kill you.’

  Richard laughed as Svritsky stood up, gripping his hands into claws like a bear.

  ‘They jump on your back and try to tear your ribs off your spine. You wait for them to sink their teeth into you like a wild animal.’

  Svritsky paused, reaching forward to tear a piece of paper out from Richard’s notepad. He took out his cellphone and scrolled through some numbers before picking up Richard’s pen. He scribbled something on the torn piece of paper and handed it to him. There was a greasy spot on the corner where Svritsky’s finger had been.

  ‘I was surprised when I find someone here who could actually give good massage. She is not Russian, but …’ – he shrugged his shoulders – ‘she is still quite good. Very professional. Strong hands. You should try her, Richard. Give her a call, yes? I have only been to her once, but she will maybe remember me. She will make your shoulders feel young again. You need to relax a bit, my friend.’ Svritsky half-opened the door. ‘And please do something about that woman.’ He gestured towards Nadine’s empty desk. ‘It is no good at all.’ He gave a parting grin, then disappeared.